Epilogophilia: Mirage a Trois
by owlcroft
Summary: Remember when the sheik discerned that the judge thinks of McCormick as a son? Well, here's a follow-up to that thought.


**Epilogophilia: Mirage ****à**** Trois**

_On McCormick's "one free day of the year", he decides to take the ferry to Catalina Island. On the voyage, he's waylaid and monopolized by a typical Valley Girl named Aleeya ("Ali") Casir, daughter of the leader of an oil-rich country. Sheik Abdullah Casir assumes Mark is Ali's boyfriend and, to protect her honor, forces them into an engagement. Unbeknownst to the sheik, his sons, Hassan and Rabin, are involved in smuggling drugs. Representatives of the State Department approach Mark and try to convince him the wedding would be in the country's best interests. Hardcastle, having learned about the drug smuggling, decides the wedding would be a perfect opportunity to nab the bad guys. An exchange of currency for drugs is witnessed during the ceremony, Hardcastle and McCormick round up the villains, a marriage is averted (but just barely) and the sheik returns to his own country, leaving Ali to marry whomever she chooses. McCormick "breaks up" with her, gently, and she marries a 35-year-old television executive._

**Epilogue** – by Owlcroft

"Are you deaf?" McCormick stomped out of the kitchen and briefly poked his head into the den. "Or just so old and feeble you can't get outta your chair?" He went on to the front door and opened it just as yet another knock sounded.

A swarthy young man in an olive-green uniform looked at him dispassionately and asked, "Hardcastle?" He raised his eyebrows interrogatively and held out a package wrapped in brown paper.

"Uh, yeah, just a sec." McCormick turned halfway toward the den and called, "Judge, it's for you."

"Here," insisted the man with the package. "Take it." He pushed the two-foot long package at Mark and nodded emphatically. "Now."

"Okay," said Mark in a conciliating tone as the judge appeared at the top of the den steps. "Is there something to sign?"

The uniformed man bent his head forward slightly, said "No," and left, climbing into a nondescript sedan with consulate license plates.

"What is it?" asked Hardcastle curiously, coming up to stand beside McCormick.

Mark handed him the flat package, shaking his head. "I dunno. A present? Or, wait a minute, hand it back." He took the box, held it close to his ear and closed his eyes, concentrating. "I don't hear any ticking. You want me to run a sinkful of water?"

"Gimme that," said the judge with a grimace. "Probably just copies of the 'diplomatic immunity' papers."

"Oh, yeah." McCormick followed the judge into the den and perched on the corner of the desk while Hardcastle rummaged in a drawer for something to open the package. "Hassan and . . . what's-his-name, the other one . . . they were going get off. Just get deported or something."

"Ah," Hardcastle pulled out a pair of scissors and cut the string surrounding the package. "Well, who knows? I know the sheik wasn't real happy with 'em. I'm betting they spend a little time in the pokey at home, maybe just house arrest or something, but," as he stripped away the paper covering of the package, "he sure wasn't just gonna let it go. Well, look at that."

Mark helped pull the rest of the wrapping paper away from a dark wooden box, inlaid with metal characters in Arabic script on the top. "Is that real gold?" he asked, touching it gingerly.

"Probably." Hardcastle smiled in pleasure. "I betcha that's the family name or crest or something. This is real nice. Real nice. He shouldn't've done this." He reached out and lifted the lid of the box to reveal a cream-colored envelope resting on a gleaming silver sword, fifteen inches long and glittering brilliantly in the late afternoon sun.

"Wow. Lookit that." McCormick peered closely at the small sword as the judge picked up the envelope and opened it. "And there's some kinda jewel in the handle."

"That's called the haft, and yeah," Hardcastle squinted at the gemstone in the pommel of the sword. "Looks like a ruby. Bet it's real, too. Well." He straightened and unfolded the letter from the envelope. "Let's see what he says. 'Accept, I beg, this small gift.' Small gift, huh!" The judge read on, "'It has been an heirloom of the house of Casir for many generations and now, with my goodwill and thanks, will grace the house of one who has done me great service. You have been fortunate, as I have not, in your descendants. Grant me this last favor and accept the Sword of Justice as an heirloom of the House of Hardcastle to be passed down to your first-born grandson, the child of McCormick.'"

The judge paused momentarily, then decided the best thing he could do would be to ignore it and keep reading. "'No man can know the future, but perhaps the joining of our families may yet be accomplished in a future generation.' Then, there's his signature and some kinda little note at the bottom in handwriting. 'The honor of the House of Casir has been restored. Be grateful, my friend, that you never needed to pass judgement on your son.'" He looked up defiantly at McCormick, ready to defend against any sarcastic comments, but the other man seemed to be ignoring him and instead was looking intently, but warily, at the sword.

"Don't touch it." Hardcastle shoved the letter into the central drawer of his desk. "You'll get fingerprints all over it and probably cut yourself and get blood on it, too."

"I hate to say this, but it sounds like somebody's beat me to it." Mark looked up at him from under his brows and said somberly, "That stuff about the Sword of Justice and the honor of his house. What do you wanna bet that's called the Ruby of Blood or something?"

"Well," said the judge with a sigh, "that had occurred to me. It's a different culture, a different way of looking at things." He thought silently for a moment. "We can't be responsible for the whole world or the way they run their own lives, ya know."

"Yeah, I know." McCormick shook his head slowly. "But, still . . ." He pushed off from the desk and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. "So, what do we do with this? You can't just leave it lying around."

Hardcastle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The box is real nice. I could use that for my stamps and paper clips and stuff. The sword . . . maybe the best thing would be to put it in the safe and leave it there."

Mark eyed him mischievously. "Until it's time to hand it on, you mean?"

"Which is gonna be a long, long time from now," harrumphed the judge. "If _ever. _Weren't you supposed to be getting supper started?"

"I _was_, but then I had to answer the door since nobody else around here would." McCormick headed up the steps to the hall, then turned back to add, "You know, it all seems a little unreal somehow. But I feel bad for them."

The judge carefully removed the sword from the wooden box and set it aside. "What you gotta remember is that _you're_ not responsible for what they did or what happened to them." He piled paper clips from a desk drawer into the box and added a letter opener and a tape dispenser. "You have to take responsibility for your _own _actions, but you also hafta let other people be responsible for themselves, see?" Hardcastle closed the lid of the box and positioned it carefully at the front of his desk. "I guess what I'm saying is, be responsible for yourself and you don't have to worry about being responsible for anybody else."

"Well, you could be wrong about that," murmured McCormick as he headed down the hall to the kitchen.

Hardcastle looked after him in surprise, thought for a moment, then nodded and said to himself. "Yeah, I might. Now where did I put the stamps?"


End file.
